Into My Grave
by Salazar's Edge
Summary: New York architect George Trevor is invited over to the estate of Ozwell E. Spencer in commemoration of its completion, but soon realizes there is no escape from the house he built.
1. Chapter 1

_My goodness. _George Trevor stepped out of his cab and gawked at the monumental structure before him. The mansion was nothing short of a marvel, its grand entrance lined with granite columns painted orange in the bathing twilight sky. Just above the arching crown of the pillars was a pane of glass that stretched out towards the heavens topped with a marble bust of David. Beside that was a looming balcony overlooking the dense forest decorated with flora from many different regions. It was a breathtaking sight for Trevor who only five years earlier laid out the blueprints for the tremendous architecture.

He pulled out a fifty-dollar bill from his coat pocket and handed it to the driver, reasonable compensation for the long drive from upstate New York. The night was quickly approaching and George found himself eager to situate himself inside the grand mansion. Sir Spencer had been courteous enough to invite him over in recognition for designing his elegant new home. _Quite a home._

George stopped at a large set of mahogany double doors and rang the doorbell. Slowly the doors creaked open, only slightly, enough for an old man with frail skin to peak his head through the opening and greet the honorable guest.

"Mr. Trevor, please come in. Lord Spencer should be joining us shortly". The old man briefly retreated back inside. Then the doors opened completely, revealing a splendid foyer with polished marbled floors and richly crafted beams that supported the upper arcades. A crimson carpet extended from the entrance, up a deep staircase, branching out into two opposite flights, each joining at the second floor landing. High up in the center dangled a golden chandelier whose radiant light casted serene beauty onto the hall.

_Unbelievable._ George had seen photos of the interior but images alone hadn't done it justice. He cursed the apartment complexes in Auburn that had kept him away from the project for two years, wishing he witnessed the full construction of the grandeur manor he was standing in. _Jessica and Lisa must have been breathless…_

Suddenly a grand set of double doors to the left swung open and out stepped Ozwell E. Spencer wrapped in a lavish purple robe dropping down just past his shins, gold cuffs at the wrists. His smooth, slicked back hair glistened under the chandelier giving him an almost angelic spotlight. He was a descendant of European aristocracy, a well-to-do entrepreneur with high ambitions and not to mention a legacy of money encrusted by his family name.

"Mr. Trevor, your presence on this most glorious occasion is greatly appreciated," Spencer extended his hand towards George. "Let me again express my deepest gratitude for your keen intellect and construction of my new home."

George removed his hat and returned the welcome, "Constructing miracles _is_ my forte; the honor was all mine."

_Ting. _A muted bell rang, echoing from the room Spencer arrived from, momentarily drawing the host's attention. "It appears supper is ready." He turned back to George and barked an order towards him, only it wasn't directed at George. The butler had silently crept up behind them and was standing as still as a statue, waiting for his master's command. "Roger, take Mr. Trevor's belongings and deliver them to his quarters."

Roger replied softly, voice cracking, "Yes, sir." The frail servant folded George's brown coat across his forearm and grabbed his hat with his free hand.

"Now if you'll join me in the dining room, my chef has prepared a wonderful banquet for us, enough to make the Monarchs of England envious," Spencer led the way back to the dining area and opened the double doors, stepping aside for George to enter first. This might turn out to be a soothing respite after all, and he would finally get to see his family again after nearly two months.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite a more than satisfying dinner, George had a hard time swallowing his glass of Château Le Pin. His absent glare seemed to dishearten Spencer, who took great care to please his guests.

"I'm very sorry Mr. Trevor, but we must learn to accept that which we cannot control. Your Aunt Emma's health should be top priority."

George gently set his glass down next to the expensive china their meals were served on. "Yes, I suppose so, but they could've penned me first." His eyes met Spencer's and for a split second he became lost in the sea of deep blue that lent him solace. "When did you say they left?"

"Just yesterday, it was such short notice. I saw to it that arrangements were made for them. They did say they wanted to see you dearly." Without a pause, Spencer beckoned towards one of his servants and within a second he was pouring a bottle of red wine into Spencer's glass. "More for you Mr. Trevor?"

"No thanks, I don't have much of an appetite anymore."

For a moment silence permeated the long hall, interrupted only by the crackling of the fireplace behind the head of the table, above which rested a worn bronze emblem bearing two swords crossing each other. _Ding. DING. _Imposing its way into the ambience, the vintage grandfather clock beckoned, signaling the arrival of late night.

Pushing himself away from the candle-lit dinner table, Spencer stood up with his guest following suit. "Surely you must be fatigued from your travels. Let's call it a night. I'll walk you to your quarters."

Somewhere nearby George heard music, a piano, soft and melodic. It took him a second to recognize the tune but once they stepped out into the connecting corridor George realized that it was Piano Sonata No.14, Moonlight Sonata. Classical Beethoven. _Lisa's favorite._

* * *

George couldn't sleep. Didn't want to sleep was more like it. A nightmare had crept into his dreams like a malevolent apparition moving silently through the night. In it, he and Jessica were having a picnic while Lisa was playing in an open field, nothing else in sight. Golden blades of grass blew carefree in the gentle breeze. When he turned to kiss his wife, she screamed, and suddenly Lisa vanished. George ran across the vast landscape but found no trace of his daughter. He had moved so far out that he lost track of Jessica as well. Isolated, George cried out for his family but his voice was drowned out in the grassy expanse. Then, someone rested a cold hand on his shoulder, a strange man in a white robe concealing his entire body. Methodically, the enigmatic figure looked up at George revealing two cold gray eyes and whispered something in his ear, almost inaudible. "Your family is already…"

_For Christ sake, how old am I? Next I'll be worrying about the monster coming out of the closet. _

Quite frankly, times were stressful for the renowned architect. Sure he was fresh off some of the most ambitious projects in the twentieth century but the lonely, sleepless nights had begun to take a toll on George. And above all he just wanted to see his family again.

_I need a smoke. _Sitting up, George looked around the darkness in search of his gold Zippo lighter. _Pockets_. He reached over to a small chair a few feet away and felt his way into his coat pocket. The cool, heavy metal slipped into his hand flooding him with serenity.

It was his most prized possessions, a gift given to him by his wife on their wedding day. _How beautiful she looked in that flowing white dress; her lips sweet and tender, her golden curls rolled up like a neatly laid bouquet of roses. My dearest Jessica._

His fingers traced the small engraving of his initials on the top cover. Flipping it open, George rolled back the metal wheel and the warm flame greeted him kindly, dancing carelessly in the dark. He lit up one of his remaining cigarettes and inhaled deeply, letting the black smoke fill his lungs before releasing. _Hope ol' Spencer doesn't mind. _After all, George was technically the guest even though he _made_ the place.

He recognized the room he was in as a relatively small bedroom located between a winding corridor and the staircase to the second floor. There was an antique typewriter on a nightstand at the foot of the bed along with a few pads of stationery. Unused shelves lined the sides with drawers full of documents and ribbons for ink storage. A large chest rested beside the only door in the room.

Outside was a hallway that twisted around a column, leading back to the room where Tiger Eyes lived. Indeed the unconventionality of the house intrigued George somewhat, but he didn't think too much of it. What should have been more alarming however, were the unlimited funds Spencer had generously lent out for the construction of the mansion. Never before was George given so much monetary support for any project, but Spencer requested perfection and the renowned architect didn't disappoint.

He stepped out into the hall and walked up to one of the windows, appreciating the silence of the night save for the occasional chirp of a cricket or caw of a crow. Rows of thick trees spread far beyond the eye could see. The house was nested deep within the Arklay Mountain range, isolated from any remnants of civilization. Spencer didn't necessarily strike George as a recluse, though the wealthy aristocrat did have a particular enigma surrounding him.

He blew a puff of smoke towards the window, staring at his own reflection as it dispersed into the air, however what caught George's attention next stole all of _his _air. _Impossible!_ Movement from deep in the forest, only a blur but enough to make out what appeared to be a man staring back at George. A man dressed in a white hooded robe, a carbon copy of the one in his nightmare.


	3. Chapter 3

A knock at the door startled George, snapping him out of his trance-like daze of light sleep.

"Mr. Trevor, Lord Spencer has requested your company." It was the voice of Roger, the old man whom George met upon entering the mansion.

He hurriedly put on his coat and answered the call, "Just a moment." Surely it must have been early morning by now, a welcome sight after a night plagued by shallow rests and cold sweats.

Roger had insisted George make his way to Spencer's private study on the east wing of the second floor. Referring to his mental map, George made his way up the stairs, cutting through the balcony of the dining room for efficient travel. All the while he could not shake the imprinted image of the white-robed man he saw at dusk. Perhaps his limitless imagination got the better of him. After all, compared to some of the buildings he concocted, a ghost from a dream wasn't exactly far-fetched.

He pushed these thoughts aside as he found his way into the preceding U-shaped hallway outside of the small library. An elegant mirror hanging on the wall returned an image of a tired, middle-aged man sporting dark bags underneath bloodshot eyes.

Voices resonated from inside Spencer's study, at least two, one of which George was unfamiliar with. Pressing the door open, George silently stepped in, not wanting to interrupt Spencer's conversation. Much to his surprise, Spencer and an older man with white hair were fixated on him even as he walked into the room.

"Mr. Trevor, so nice of you to join us on such a joyous occasion." Spencer had a grin plastered on his face stretching from cheek to cheek. He motioned towards the third man, "I'd like you to meet my…business associate, Sir Edward Ashford."

Ashford was leaning against a desk furnished with an antique lamp and several leather-bound books. It wasn't until he stepped forward that George recognized him, a former client that contracted him some years ago to design a manor way below the equator, somewhere in the Antarctic. A mansion very similar to the one they currently stood in.

"Trevor, I believe we met before." Ashford nodded towards George, one hand buried in his inner coat pocket.

George remembered their negotiation at the café. "Paris, to discuss your establishment in Antarctica."

Ashford stroked his thick mustache. "Yes, I learned of your fascinating work after taking a cruise across the Mediterranean. Le reine Zenobia was the name of that elegant ship. I had to inquire about the construction and the captain told me of George Trevor."

"He arrived this morning," Spencer piped in. "We had a very enlightening talk in regards to a partnership."

George raised an eyebrow. _Same homes, both English blue bloods, now a partnership?_ Something seemed way too coordinated and the arrival of Edward Ashford at this time superseded a mere coincidence.

Spencer continued, "It has been my intention to start a pharmaceutical business for a while now. What do you think of the name _Umbrella_?" He picked up a thick green book from his desk with gold letters engraved into the cover. It was a volume from a pathology series; the type professors would lecture from in their seminars. Spencer flipped through the worn pages, stopping at one section in particular with a microscopic image of human celluloid's. "The Ebola virus is an incredibly deadly agent that we discovered on an expedition to North Africa," he explained. "Nine out of ten people who contract a strain of Ebola will, without exception, die." He shut the book and placed it back on his desk. "Our goal is to provide an umbrella that will shield the masses from all this illness and disease."

Spencer smirked and clasped his hands under his chin. "And that's why I've brought Sir Ashford along. He's somewhat of a genius in biochemistry."

Ashford chuckled then added very matter-of-factly, "I finished first in my class back in Oxford." George felt his shoulders sag as he heard Ashford ramble about his accolades. It wasn't typical for the famous architect to feel intimidated by men of high entitlement, after all those were his usual employers, but these two exuded such an imposing stature of self-confidence that could make even the nobles humble.

Ashford walked behind a bookshelf and looked down at a chessboard crafted from refined ivory. "Oh, the intense matches we used to have…though I could never manage to trump you."

This seemed to bring great pride to Spencer, whose eyes suddenly widened at the mention of their games. "George, perhaps one day you and I will have a game of chess. I could definitely dust off my skills." Spencer's grin widened, exposing his sparkling white teeth. George ran his finger across the chessboard, inexplicably feeling a cold chill running up his spine.

* * *

Hulking medieval knights stood tall in two rows, swords erect as if they were ready to head into battle. They were certainly authentic, George learned as he cursed the rusty, razor sharp edges of the swords. Their iron plates glimmered underneath kerosene lanterns hanging from the walls. He was sure nobody was inside but still felt uneasy standing next to the suits of armor.

Apparently this was the last stop on Spencer's grand tour, which covered the luxurious areas of the mansion. Spencer's wealth knew no bounds; Caravaggio paintings, Raphael sculptures, and ebony shelves furnished the array of rooms situated within each hallway.

"Another shipment of statues should be on their way." Spencer pointed out two grated ventilation holes on the floor. "I specifically want two over these nuisances."

From what George could recall, most of the rooms were laid out identically to his floor plans, except for the secluded living room on the first floor. George had gone back to New York before that section was completed and wasn't informed that a decorative golden antechamber was built between the living room and the hallway.

Even with the blueprints of the house etched into his mind, George decided that he would be best not wandering too far off, afraid that he would lose his way and never return to the outer world. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure Spencer had all of his sanity intact. Who the hell would want to live in a house like this?

"I want to show you something George, one of my prized possessions." Spencer gave the heavyset door a hefty shove and it creaked open. George felt a wave of relief wash over him, eager to leave that room. They were in there for no longer than five minutes, probably less, but to George it seemed like he was trapped in another world.

The host led his guest back through the dining room balcony and into a windowless room upstairs. In the darkness, George made out the shadowy form of some sort of head mounted on the wall and although he couldn't see it, he sensed it gazing over them. With the flip of a switch, the beast came to life, only momentarily, its fierce red eyes signaled an impending charge at some helpless prey with its great big horns. But it wasn't alive; it had been stuffed and was now confined to hang there for the rest of its days.

"Isn't it beautiful?" asked Spencer. Chest protruding into the air, Spencer walked over to the mounted Moose head and caressed its fur. "Nothing beats the rush of the hunt, when you're face to face with one of God's mightiest creatures, knowing that only one of you will be walking away with your life intact." Perhaps it was out of sheer astonishment, or possibly to cover up his own fear, that George let out a chuckle. Feeling weak and powerless, he backed up against the wall and instinctively made his way to the door.

Spencer pulled down one of the Model 700 bolt-action Remington rifles from a rack on the wall and aimed at the dead animal. "This one put up an admirable fight. Took me six rounds to finally put it down."

A bead of sweat rushed down George's forehead and it certainly wasn't from the heat.

"Do you like to hunt George?" Spencer asked him.

"No, I'm not so fond of taking another creature's life," responded George defensively.

"After you've felt the sensation, you won't think twice about it." Spencer laughed inwardly. Suddenly, George felt the urge to bail and return to his room, but he didn't want to come off as being frightened by his host. Seeing the rifle in Spencer's hand alarmed him until he remembered the present his wife offered Spencer for his birthday.

"Is that the one Jessica gave you?" George pointed at the gun in Spencer's hand. His inquiry seemed to bring a hint of anguish to Spencer as he frowned in response.

"I'm afraid not. It was knocked out of my hands by a bear and the barrel collapsed. Give her my apologies if you get the chance. It was such a great gift." Then, as to accommodate, he added with a smirk, "but the bear is in much worse shape than the twelve gauge." Not surprisingly, it didn't do much to comfort George considering the shotgun once belonged to Jessica's father.

"I wish she were here right now." George leaned back, inhaling deeply, unaware that a pole holding up a stuffed eagle was right behind him. The collision shook the stand, knocking something loose. _Clang_. Whatever hit the carpet was extremely dense as it resonated loudly through the room.

George scrambled to the floor and picked up a heavy, blood red jewel that sparkled in the light. "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't see that…"

Spencer cut him off, "Ah, don't worry about it, its replaceable. Just be more observant next time." He didn't seem angry, but he wasn't too thrilled either. Instead he casually grabbed the jewel from George, wiping it down with his coat before slipping it into his pocket.


End file.
